


ain't you ever seen a princess be a bad bitch?

by safeandsound13



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Time, Good Girl!Clarke, Porn With Very Little Plot, Possessive Behavior, Praise Kink, Smut, bad boy!bellamy, bad takes on virginity, faux deep conversations, no murphy as promised, not based on a taylor swift song surprise, thats it. thats the plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-25
Updated: 2020-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:40:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23843872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/safeandsound13/pseuds/safeandsound13
Summary: Clarke is solely at Ark U to keep her head down, put in the work and prosper academically. By all means, Bellamy is a bad guy. They couldn't be more different. He's a selfish ass, and he never shows up to any of his classes as far as she knows, and is always getting drunk and starting fights.Worst of all, he's set his sights on her.
Relationships: Bellamy Blake/Clarke Griffin
Comments: 79
Kudos: 540
Collections: Bellarke smut





	ain't you ever seen a princess be a bad bitch?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Who_Needs_Reality](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Who_Needs_Reality/gifts).



> this is for meha, for degrading herself to voting for an e!online poll in the name of hurricane eliza taylor. now if yall ever wanna hit rockbottom like her and get one of these, send me the screen shots on twitter for proof and i'll consider it. lets win the next and last round for our leading lady, queen of hair frying and confusing the letter 't' for the letter 'p', skinny legend, the coiner of the good earth day cleavage, bob morley's wife, clarke griffin's irl counterpart, the OG ms steal yo' man, momster of two pups, emmy worthy cw actress: eliza taylor. 
> 
> the prompt: Bad boy!Bellamy and good girl!Clarke where he’s determined to hook up with her for fun and she hates him and just wants to keep her head down and study etc and but they f*ll in l*ve anyway. Jealous!Clarke, possessive!Bell, smut, no M*rhpy.
> 
> fair warning, this is unedited. i could not be assed. 
> 
> song in title is bad decisions by ariana grande🥵

“Heads up!” 

Clarke only dodges a beer can to the eye because Monty shoves her aside just in time. It crashes into the wall, the force of it cracking it right open and spraying 12 oz of cheap beer directly onto her chest and soaking her dress right to her underwear. When she turns on her heels to glare at whoever threw it, of course it’s fucking Bellamy Blake and his following of imbeciles huddled together and snickering like preschoolers.

“Clarke,” Monty starts, uneasy, and she knows what he is going to say. It’s not worth the trouble. It probably isn’t, but he’s been getting away with everything his entire life, and she can’t stand idly by and watch it happen any longer. 

“Here she comes,” she hears him say in that stupid gravelly voice, straightening to his full height instead of leaning back against the counter. He has that certain kind of air about him, like he doesn’t give a shit about anything, and it never fails to rub her the wrong way.

“Princess looks pissed,” one of his inbred fans jokes, Sterling she thinks, hoping to earn his praise. It’s pathetic. The man himself just looks annoyed however, crossing his arms over his chest as she comes to a halt right in front of his stupid little group of frat boy fucks. 

“Which one of you idiots threw the can?” Clarke demands, balling her fists at her sides. She’s been at this school for a total of three months after transferring here sophomore year, and he’s been on her nerves almost every single day. 

Bellamy fucking Blake. Guys want to be him, girls want to fuck him. Majoring in being a massive dick. Spends more time hanging around the bleachers smoking than he does attending any classes. A walking STD with an ego the size of a small planet. 

And this year, apparently he’s picked her as his annual sexual harassment case. He’s just hasn’t realized he’s not going to win.

“What are you going to do about it?” Miller teases, obviously just parroting whatever fucked up thoughts his best friend has, which is just absolutely fucking _great_ , because he is the only reason she even came to this stupid party. The only reason she’s not in her room studying for her Physics test on Monday, outfit completely beer-free. Monty begged her to come along for days, just so he could longingly stare at the guy from across the room all night and not make a single move whatsoever. “Call your mommy on us?”

“Real mature,” she bites back, smacking her hand into his red solo cup so half of the contents slosh over the edge and spill onto the sleeve of his shirt. 

“What the hell?” He grumbles, shaking off his wrist as he pushes off the wall, as if to charge at her. Bellamy holds his arm out to hold him back, but Clarke’s not done yet.

She scrunches up her nose, narrowing her eyes at him. She doesn’t know what Monty sees in the guy. “I could’ve gone blind back there!”

“Maybe we all would’ve been better off with your party-pooper ass off at a blind institute,” the one she recognizes as Atom cuts in, making the band of Micro Penises Anonymous burst out into laughter. 

People are starting to stare, making her cast her eyes at her feet, and humiliation makes her grit her teeth together, realizing she should’ve known better than to try and educate a group of subhuman animals who have a collective of eight brain cells total.

“Cut it out,” Bellamy commands, authoritatively, his laughter trailing off. He smacks one of them on the back of the head, nudging his head toward the puddle of beer by the wall. “Go clean that up.” Tips his jaw up at another of his friends, “Get her some paper towels.”

“Don’t,” Clarke says quickly, but the guy’s already walking away, the rest of his club of brainless shits making themselves scarce as well. At least she can glare at Bellamy in full glory now. “I don’t need your help.”

“Shame about the dress,” he tsks, completely ignoring her, toying with the hem of her sleeve just over her bicep. The touch makes her heartbeat stutter briefly, but only because she’s not used people touching her like that. Clarke is rolling her eyes, slapping his hand away. He lowers his voice conspiratorially, the sound a deep rumble, “It would’ve looked better on you in white though.”

“You’re disgusting,” she seethes, ignoring the blush forming on her cheeks at the implication and his eyes obviously lingering on her chest. It’s not like she’s a virginal prude who gets uncomfortable at the first mention of nudity. She just didn’t come all the way here to fuck around and sleep her way through class. Least of all with an arrogant prick like him.

“Maybe so,” he smirks, a twinkle in his eye she recognizes all too well, somehow moving closer to her. “But it seems to get your attention every time.”

Clarke refuses to take a step back from him, instead crossing her arms over her chest protectively. Her forehead creasing as she glares up at him, bristling, “Don’t flatter yourself.”

He reaches out again, this time tugging on the neat braid hanging over her shoulder. “It’s hard not to when a girl as pretty as you is giving me the time of day.”

She forces herself to scoff, ignoring the way her skin prickles with the praise, loudly announcing over the Katy Perry song blasting over the speakers, “Monty, we’re leaving.”

A throaty chuckle leaves his mouth as he casually leans back against the counter, picking his red cup up off the laminate with a raise of his eyebrows. The position makes his biceps bulge and she makes a point out of not letting her eyes dwindle anywhere below his chin, like he so obviously wants her to. Bellamy puts the cup to his lips, hiding his smirk behind the rim, “So soon?”

“Not soon enough,” she bites back, already pivoting around to make her way back through the thickening crowd to find her friend. The party’s only really starting now, barely nine when her and Monty arrived, and Clarke is glad she has an excuse to leave before they pull out the keggers.

“See you around, princess!”

Clarke can’t help the strangled, frustrated noise that leaves her lips at that stupid, fucking nickname, knowing it’ll just add fuel to the fire. He loves knowing he’s getting under her skin, and she should be better at hiding it after all this time. One more glance at him over her shoulder, one look at that overly satisfied with himself expression on his face, and she’s flipping him the bird of her shoulder. 

Seriously, she can’t wait for the college board to take pity on him and their entire female population and finally let him graduate. Life would be so much easier.

~

The thing about Bellamy is that he is every-fucking-where. He’s there flirting with customers through paper cups at the campus coffee shop when she’s getting her much needed dose of caffeine before her first class, he’s there stumbling out of a stall in the girl’s bathroom with some sorority chick when she’s washing her hands before lunch, he’s there lifting weights and showing off his muscles at the college gym when she remembers and tries to get in her obligatory thirty minutes a day once a week. 

She’s not so narcissistic to think he’s stalking her, but he’s definitely hoping that if he keeps throwing himself at her she’ll give in out of sheer annoyance. There’s always a quick wink, or a slow once-over while he lazily chews on his gum, an off-handed comment about how ‘hot’ the room is with her in it. 

Frankly, it gets on her nerves. 

The first time she met him, at another frat party -- her first at the school -- Monty dragged her to, he seemed to have gotten the wrong idea. That somehow, she was a riddle, and if he just said or did the right thing, she’d crack. Open her legs. 

He’d been leaning against the wall sideways, twirling a strand of her blonde hair around his finger. He smelled like cigarettes and mint. “I just renewed my Netflix subscription, if you would want to come over. We could watch whatever you like.”

“No thank you,” Clarke had insisted, still polite at that point, staring straight ahead at the dancefloor and desperately hoping to catch a sign of her friend, who left her to her own defenses to get them a drink over fifteen minutes ago. 

She thinks her reputation is part of what drew him to her. She didn’t want to dance with Niylah, and she ignored the puppy eyes her lab partner Finn kept throwing at her, and she refused to go home with him. He liked that she was a challenge, that she wasn’t giving herself to anyone, still left to claim. 

“I could show you a good time,” he drawled, hand dropping down to her shoulder and he was obviously half-way drunk, eyes a little glazy as they focused -- or tried to -- on the bare skin of her shoulder he was caressing. His touch was warm, and overbearing. She both wanted him gone, and wanted him closer.

She shrugged him off, her head lolling to the side to quirk an eyebrow at him, deadpanning, “Yeah, that’ll never happen.”

Somehow, it sparked him on even more, a lazy grin playing on his lips. “Is that a challenge?”

“No,” she emphasized, trying not to startle by how close he had moved without her noticing. So close, she could count all his freckles, make out the scar on his lip. “That’s me telling you to get lost.”

Bellamy had moved back to a more appropriate distance, pressing a hand to his chest jokingly. To be fair, she had liked the mischievous spark in his eyes, liked how it made him look younger, but she thinks she did an okay-job at trying to hide it from him. “You wound me.”

Finn had come up to them next, his brows furrowed together. “Dude, are the signs not obvious enough? She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

If there was one thing that annoyed her more than guys who couldn’t take a hint, it was guys pretending like she was some sort of damsel in distress. They were at a party, for shit’s sake. What was Bellamy going to do? Grope her in front of the entire student body?

“Mind your business, Collins,” he’d scoffed off-handedly, keeping his eyes trained on her. 

Finn had gotten that look of condescending disdain all over his face, looking Bellamy up and down like he could take him in a fight, “The girl wants you to leave. No is no, jackass.”

“The _girl--”_ He’d finally rolled off the wall to stare the other guy down, “--can speak for herself.”

Clarke had flicked her eyes up at the ceiling at the rising volume of their voices, finally spotting Monty in the crowd of dancing bodies. She pushed her drink into Finn’s hand as she pushed off the wall, informing them, “You’re both dicks,” before disappearing into the sea of bodies and away from the testerone fest from hell. 

It’s not like she thought she was too good for anyone. Niylah with her long silky hair and delicate fingers was pretty, and Finn with his lopsided smile and blue eyes was cute, and Bellamy with his messy curls and sharp jawline was -- something, but when she transferred here, she made a promise to herself that she would just focus on what really mattered. 

Her previous school had been closer to home, but after her dad died and she and her mom had a full-on blow out over the role she played in it, she wanted nothing more than to disappear to the other side of the world. Ark U was five states over, which was close enough. 

Last year, she fucked up. She met Lexa, and she not only got in her head, but also her heart, and even her hand in her panties a few times before it all blew up in her face, and her work and her _life_ suffered because of it. She couldn’t afford being dependent on her mom any longer, not when it made her sick even just looking at her. And if she didn’t want to be dependent, she needed to do the work, get a degree and find a job. 

Besides, it was just important to her. To do the best she could, be the absolute best compared to everyone else. A fear-of-failure induced panic attack wouldn’t be the first, and Clarke liked succeeding. Liked the praise, and the pride that made her glow, and how fulfilled it made her feel to be handed back an A+. If she was ever going to be a doctor, she was going to be a great one, the best one, and she couldn’t afford to be making any mistakes because she missed that once class that covered the topic on it just because of something stupid and childish, like a hangover.

It wasn’t personal. 

She thought that would be it. That Bellamy would find some other girl to take home, and forget all about her. By all means, it was not.

“Shouldn’t you be working?” She simply says, not even bothering to look up from her laptop while she keeps typing, Bellamy sliding into the chair across from hers, still wearing his purple apron. 

“I’m on break.”

“Don’t you have something better to do than harass your customers?”

Amusement coats his voice, “Not when they look as cute as you.”

It finally makes her head snap up to glare at him and his shit-eating grin over the top of her laptop, and it’s now she notices the fresh cup of coffee on the table beside one of her books. “I didn’t order this.”

“It’s on the house,” he presses, smiling like the cat who got the cream.

“I don’t want it,” she grits, eyes narrowing as she shoves it to his side of the table. He looks stupid today, his hair is messier than usual, and there’s a flush on his skin from working rush-hour. There’s a marker behind his ear which he uses to write his dumb flirty messages on coffee cups of his blissfully unaware victims. His hands are big where they rest on top of each other on the table, which isn’t just a ‘ _today_ ’ thing, but still. It’s worth mentioning they’re ridiculously big. And annoying.

He leans forward on his elbows, obviously amused, sliding it back over to her side. “Yes, you do.”

Clarke thumbs through her binder, pretending to be busy, which she is, but it’s not like she can focus with him sitting across from her and distracting her. “You seriously need to stop confusing ‘no’ for ‘yes’ or I will be obligated to sign you up for a English 101 refresher course.”

As arrogant as ever, he nonchalantly notes, “I will when you will.”

Her eyes snap back up to meet his, heated. His side is pressed back against the chair now, elbow leaning on one of the ears, and she wonders who managed to convince this guy he was the be-all and end-all of the male species. Disgust taints her voice as she spits, “I don’t want _you_.”

“Funny how your mind keeps going there,” he teases, eyes slowly trailing down the low ponytail hanging over her shoulder, the modest pale blue sweater across her chest, make a small detour at her beauty mark before flicking back up to her bare eyes. “Now that you’ve brought it up--”

“I’m studying,” she cuts him off, not in the mood, fingers tightening around her pink highlighter. Clarke isn’t sure how much more uninterested she can possibly appear. “And you should really go feed that smoking addiction of yours before your hands start to tremble.”

She’s said the wrong thing, obviously, because now Bellamy is grinning like an idiot. “I didn’t know you paid me that much attention, princess.”

“It’s not hard to miss,” Clarke counters, sharply, and then she can’t help but add, a bit brattily if she does say so herself, “You know it’s bad for you, right?”

He gives her a long look, almost long enough to make her squirm in her seat, before he simply tilts his head. “Nice of you to care.”

Clarke scoffs, shaking her head, incredulous, before she bitterly insists, “I don’t.”

Bellamy holds her gaze, and the only reason she doesn’t look away is because she doesn’t want to look weak, a slow grin spreading across his lips, “Whatever you say, babe.”

She does _not_ flush at the nickname, and she doesn’t know what seems to have him so smirk-y. “Blake!” one of the baristas, looking annoyed, which is completely understandable, calls out, “We need you in the backroom.”

“Saved by the looming call of capitalism,” he says with an melodious lilt to his voice, foot brushing hers under the table whether incidentally or not, tapping the table with his hand, once, twice, before getting up. 

Clarke ignores him, pointedly dragging her highlighter over a sentence in her notebook as she keeps her eyes trained there. It just makes him snicker, like he refuses to take her seriously, the sound echoing through the busy crowd even as he walks back to the counter.

She lets the coffee go cold. He doesn’t pick up on the hint. 

~

Clarke likes to study late at night. The library is quieter, and there’s less people around so there’s more room to sprawl out all her stuff and less chance anyone will try to make useless small talk. Plus, it’s the perfect location whenever her roommate decides to sexile her again. Unfortunately, one particular Thursday night, she’s witness to Bellamy getting off some perky junior a few tables over from her. 

Of course she pretends not to notice, like any sane person would do. She presses her thighs together, and twists her body enough so her back is towards them, elbow on top of the table to shield her view as she furiously highlights every word in her book she can make out through her blurry vision. She turns her music up higher, tries to drown out the quiet giggles and the obviously fake hushed ‘ _Bellamy, stop_ ’s and the semi-inconspicuous heavy breathing. Her blood pressure has never spiked this high, her palms getting sweaty with what she tells herself is a serious case of secondhand embarrassment. God, what if they get caught?

Three minutes, and he’s plopping down across from her with a book, the girl nowhere to be seen. “Princess. Another late night study session?”

Clarke ignores him, which is her go-to move, although she should come up with a new one, because it hardly ever seems to work.

“Okay, so we’re doing this again,” he sighs, as if frustrated, and it pisses her off. She never _asked_ for this. She couldn’t have been more clear on the fact she thinks he’s a fucking dick, and that even if he was the last person on earth and it was up to the two of them to repopulate, she wouldn’t even use a eight foot pole to save humanity from extinction. 

She bites her tongue, but of course, he keeps going. “I don’t know why you insist on ignoring me when--”

She reaches up to yank out her earbuds in one swift move, scowling at him as she tries to keep her voice down, mortified at the thought of the librarian coming over to scold her. “Maybe if you spent a little more time at the library studying instead of fingering girls under the table, you wouldn’t be a super senior twice over now.”

He doesn’t respond in the way she wants him to, because he’s him. Instead he just smirks, eyes darkening on hers. “Are you jealous, Clarke?” He asks, leaning his forearms on the table, “Do you want me to finger you underneath the table?”

There’s a flash, of his fingers dancing over the creamy expanse of her thigh, dipping under the hem of her skirt, his mouth on her neck, but she pushes it away as quickly as it comes. 

“Oh fuck off,” she retorts, cheeks heating up as she throws a scrunched up ball of sticky note his way. It’s just hormones, she tells herself, it’s not him. She refuses to believe that.

He catches it easily, because of course he does, and there’s obvious laughter in his voice, “You know I’ll do it.”

“Seems to be a right of passage here,” she mumbles mostly for her own ears as she raises her eyebrows to herself, eyes widening slightly in contempt as she turns back to her work. 

“Are you slutshaming me?” Bellamy cocks an eyebrow and she hates how he always twists her words. She hates how he always manages to get under her skin. Most of all, she hates how attracted to him she is, how good he looks in a simple black t-shirt, how every dumb word he says just makes her want to listen to him forever. He’s a cliché, the only thing missing a leather jacket, and she thought she was better than this.

“What?” She counters, annoyed, smacking down her highlighter as she looks at him, really looks at him, from across the table. “I’m supposed to be impressed by you _using_ these girls?”

“I’m not using anyone,” he replies simply, shrugging half-heartedly. His expression sobering, a flash of something she can’t place before he’s all cocky bravado again. “As a matter of fact, most of these girls come up to _me_.”

“Sure,” she hums skepticalky, finding it hard to believe. Not the girls coming up to him part, but the part where is some supposed hardship for him.

“It’s true,” Bellamy presses, half a laugh in his voice at her expression before he turns more serious, faux or not, she's not sure. “I guess you could say they’re using me.” He raises his eyebrows, like it’s a challenge. “So they can win some stupid bet they made with their friends, or impress their sorority sisters. Some of them just want to know what it’s like to experience an actual orgasm.” He smiles, pleased at the indignant, exasperated huff she lets out, then calmly continues, “Do you think they ever ask me how my day went?”

“I feel so bad for you,” Clarke empathizes, sarcastically, an obviously fake and overly sweet tight lipped smile on her face, but it leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

He covers one of her hands, the one gripping the edge of the textbook in front of her more tightly than necessary, his touch warm and unexpected. His thumb brushes her pulsepoint gently, as if not even there at all, and she lets him, swallowing tightly. “Does this mean you’re up for a pity fuck in the History section?”

His eyes crinkle at the horrified look on her face, and she yanks her hand back from him as if burned. “You have issues.”

Bellamy doesn’t look all that bothered. “So do ninety percent of the people here. Including you.”

She sends him a confused look, forehead creasing and lips pursing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing,” he smirks, all innocently, then pushes himself up by gripping the edge of the table. He winks, swiping his book off the table, “Have fun studying.”

She doesn’t like what he seems to implying, nor does she like him having the last word, so she finds herself calling after him, “Go fuck yourself, Bellamy!”

The librarian sends her such a dirty look, it haunts her dreams for at least a week.

  
  


~

An arm wraps around her shoulders as she’s walking home from a late night class, although she relaxes when she realizes who it belongs to. He might be an ass, but she doesn’t think of him as dangerous. “Hey princess, you coming to our party?”

“Can’t,” she dismisses him simply, looking over her shoulder to see his ragtag group of friends trailing a few feet behind them, loudly talking and shoving each other around. She rolls her eyes, pressing her books closer to her chest.

His eyes linger on her collarbone, following the dip and delicate curve, pulling her closer into his side. He sounds distracted, “Why not?”

“Early class tomorrow.”

“You sure?” He prompts, playfully jostling her shoulder back and forth a little. “Jasper hooked us up with some quality weed.”

“Gross,” she blurts out, scrunching up her nose. 

“It would do you good to relax a little,” Bellamy counters, tugging on her tight braid with the hand wrapped around her shoulder. 

Clarke is well aware people think of her as uptight, intense. She doesn’t really care. Usually. Part of her wants to impress him, surprise him, and she doesn’t know why, so she leans away from it even harder, at all times. “Maybe some other time,” she answers, obviously sarcastic. “You go enjoy yourself.”

His hand slides down to her waist, squeezing so she squirms away from his hand, bumping back into his chest. Bellamy crushes her tighter to him, ducking his head so his breath is hot on her neck as he tells her, low, “I never enjoy myself as much as when you’re there.”

Her nostrils flare, although she manages a sweet smile as she shifts her head to look at him, shoving him away enough so she can take a breath without her head spinning, “Well, we can’t all waste away our college years partying and getting drunk with our loser friends.” 

He sighs dramatically, fingertips trailing up and down her arm absentmindedly, sending an unfortunate chill up her spine. “Life is so much more fun when you do whatever the hell you want, princess.”

“Life is about more than having fun,” she presses, matter-of-factly, brushing away a strand of hair from her eyes with one of her hands. 

They come to a stop in front of her dorm, his friends continuing to move down the sidewalk, calling for him to hurry up as they pass around vodka, drinking straight from the bottle. She’s so disgusted with them, she doesn’t notice Bellamy leaning in time. He smacks a goodbye kiss to her cheek, thumb and forefinger briefly cupping her chin, and one of his friends whistles.

“Bellamy,” she scolds him, practically hissing, quickly wiping at her cheek as her neck splotches an angry red. Although she’s let him toe the line with her in private before, his friends might get the wrong idea and then she’s one step away from being seen as just another notch on his belt. He’s so fucking reckless, and irresponsible, and _annoying_ , it’s driving her up the wall. 

“Oh, not her precious v-card, Blake!” One of his buddies -- an absolute buffoon -- presses sarcastically, followed by a loud burst of laughter, and she flips them off over Bellamy’s shoulders. This is exactly what she means.

The guy in question holds up his hands in defense, already moving backwards, eyes raking down and back up her body, “I can’t help myself when you look that pretty.”

Her oldest pair of paint-stained jeans and an old wrap sweater, she hardly feels like it couldn’t be anything _but_ a line. “It’s never happening,” she reminds him, firmly, frozen in place.

The corners of his mouth quirk up, a playful glint in his eyes. “Maybe one of these days you’ll even convince yourself.”

Just like that, he’s gone, and Clarke gets inside the building on auto-pilot. She manages to work on her flashcards for another thirty minutes and fumble her way through one homework assignment before she spends her night clutching her blanket tighter than necessary, ignoring the way her entire body feels jittery and on edge, tossing and turning until she finally wears herself down. 

~

A morning shower, just early enough before the dorms come alive, when she rips aside the shower curtain to find him there, leaning against the wall. Clarke barely manages to repress the squeak of surprise clawing it’s way up her throat. She holds her towel tighter to her body, making a move for the sink and passing him by without giving him another glance. She actively ignores the fact this might be the most anyone has seen of her with the lights on. “I could get you kicked out of the dorms for this.”

“But you won’t,” he says, pointedly, turning so his back is against the wall. His hair is damp, water dripping down his shoulders and chest. She notices, but doesn’t let herself linger.

She avoids the obvious implication there, and how she seems physically incapable of denying it, instead changes the subject,“How did you even know I was here?” She huffs, flipping open her toiletry bag to start digging through the contents. Inwardly, she’s shaking, but outwardly, she won’t give him the satisfaction. “Stalking is a felony, you know this, right?”

“It’s not, actually,” he counters easily, hands coming up to fold around his opposite elbows, holding her gaze in the mirror. She’s thankful he’s keeping his distance at least. “Misdemeanor at most, if you haven’t been caught before.”

“It should be,” she scoffs, squirting some moisturizer into her palm before applying it to her face with small circular movements. “Do you make a habit of coming into the girls’ bathroom?”

“Well--” Bellamy cocks an eyebrow, smirk growing in way she decidedly doesn’t like, so she cuts him off. 

“Actually, don’t answer that.” She grabs her mascara, starting to coat her eyelashes with the make-up. Clarke hopes that if she stays busy, she won’t think about how he’s half-naked, and so is she, and then maybe her heart rate will manage to slow down sometime soon. Dark patches are starting to form on her grey towel under her dripping hair. “These showers are my sanctuary. I don’t need to know what sins you’ve committed here.”

“Such a dirty mind,” he teases, tsking, then his face clears, and he leans his head back against the tile. “The boys’ showers are disgusting. I usually come here before work, to _shower_.” 

Somehow that seems unlikely. Clarke scoffs to herself, dropping the mascara back into the bag as she fishes out her eyebrow brush. “I’m sure you’ve kept all of your outings here perfectly PG-13.”

His brows jump, and there’s that tell-tale dangerous smirk reappearing eagerly. “If you want to change that--”

“Don’t,” Clarke interrupts him, shaking her head to herself, instead railing the conversation back somewhere safer. Somewhere that won’t make her clamp up like a pathetic loser. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t,” he says, before his mouth twitches, giving him away. “Then I recognized your voice.”

_Great._ He heard her trying to grossly abuse Patsy Cline’s Crazy, one of her dad’s favorites that sometimes still gets stuck in her head unprompted. Fucking fantastic.

Bellamy’s chuckling at her humiliation, as always, although he sounds strangely endeared. “Even the music you listen to is virtuous.”

She groans, throwing her head back. _Fuck_ , that’s embarrassing. When she opens her eyes, he’s decisively closer. His hand hovers over her hip, there but not touching, nosing her wet hair aside so he can press a kiss to her bare shoulder. 

She wants to tell him off. Wants to tell him, _fuck you, I listen to The Weeknd, and Grimes, and fucking Panic! At The Disco, and I think about sex all the time, not specifically with you but sometimes, more often than not, with you as well, and I had a weed brownie once. I’m edgy, and I have layers, and you’re an ass._ Instead, Clarke can’t suppress the shiver rolling up her spine, nor the way her breath hitches, or her body automatically seems to lean back into his heat. As soon as she does, his hand folds around her hip completely, pulling her closer into him. 

He brushes her hair aside and holds it there with his free hand, keeps trailing soft kisses down the curve of her shoulder, the slope of her neck, in between her shoulder blades. Her eyes fluttering shut with the sensation, feeling just him, the warm press of his mouth, forgetting the world outside, all the reasons why she shouldn’t.

She catches his appreciative look in the mirror through half-lidded eyes, “You see how good we look together, babe?” And she can’t help but note how right he is; Clarke all soft, pale curves, leaning back into him, Bellamy, all dark, hard edges. His hand delicately slides forward over her lower belly, slowly dipping lower and lower, making her swallow heavily as he holds her gaze. His murmurs a low rumble against her skin, “Hmm? Don’t you want me to make you feel good?”

Clarke’s breath hitches as she opens her mouth to respond, his other hand dropping her hair back down her shoulder to dip under her arm, slide up her waist to skim the side of her breast, grazing along the edge of the towel on her collarbone, leaving her skin red and splotchy, tingly all over. He’s everywhere and nowhere all at once. 

Her phone alarm blares loudy through the bathroom, reminding her she only has ten minutes to scarf down breakfast and get down to her first class. She shoves him away with her elbows, hurriedly collecting her bag and belongings. 

Bellamy blocks her path, almost causing her to bump into him. He smirks down at her, slapping her ass as she finally passes him by, promising, “To be continued.”

Clarke scowls, swirling back around to poke her finger into his chest, “In your dreams.”

He catches her hand before it drops away completely, intertwining their fingers. It makes something low in her belly flutter, and she hates herself for it. Hates the look on his smug face even more. “You can stop pretending now, princess.”

A spluttering, stammering noise spills from her lips in frustration as she yanks her hand free, pointing another warning finger into his direction, this time far enough away so he can’t grab it, and the best she can come up with through the haze clouding her mind is, “Stop stalking me, dick.”

Clarke’s flip flops loudly slap against the concrete as she rushes out of there, blood rushing to her ears at an alarming speed, and she makes sure to slam the door on her way out.

~

“Is there a doctor aboard?” Some drunk guy yells from the back of the room, hidden by a crowd of bystanders. She can just make out the tip of his fingers as they wave back and forth over his head.

“We’re in a bar,” Clarke mumbles to her project group, out for celebratory drinks after getting the highest grade of their class, although no one seems to hear. Nobody makes a move to help either. 

It gets awkward to watch fast, so Clarke downs the last of her gin tonic and moves her way through the crowd. The low, heavy beat of an Alanis Morissette song drums through the place. “I’m pre-med.”

“Close enough,” the guy from earlier quips, nodding down at the guy by his feet, bleeding profusely from his nose. “Dumbasses got into a fight.”

She resists the urge to roll her eyes as she kneels down at his side, asks someone to get her some ice as she instructs him on how to hold his nose and asks him a few questions to make sure he’s not concussed. Aside from the obviously broken nose, he seems relatively okay, and after ten minutes, as she’s telling him it’d be wise to see a doctor, he’s cutting her off to ask his friends to get him another beer. He’ll be fine.

The bartender lets her wash her hands behind the counter, then nudges her head towards the door sealed off for ‘personnel only’, drying off a glass. She smiles, friendly. “They took the other guy out back, maybe you can check on him too, doc?”

“Not a doctor,” Clarke mutters, wiping her damp hands on the back of her jeans as she pushes against the crash bar. The cold hits her in the face like a slap as the door opens, and she hugs her arms to her body as she takes a step outside and it swivels shut. 

It doesn’t take long to spot them. Bellamy on a crate underneath one of the streetlights, holding a bag to his cheekbone, and one of his friends at his side, kneading his shoulder encouragingly. She doesn’t know why he’s in need of a pep talk, least of all from -- if she squints -- Miller, who seems to prefer glares to words. 

She makes her way over there, sharp wind pulling some strands lose from her ponytail, and Miller is the one who notices her first. She doesn’t like the way he grins, patting Bellamy on the back with the words, “I’ll be inside.”

He nods at her as he passes her by, and Clarke ignores him, keeping her eyes on Bellamy as well as her distance. “Can I help?”

“I’m fine,” Bellamy smiles, even if it doesn’t reach his eyes, holding up the bag of what seems to be ice cubes. “Not my first time.”

Of course it isn’t. People don’t avoid him for no reason. She squeezes on top of the crate beside him, trying to pry away his hand so she can assess the damage. “Let me look.”

“No,” he brushes her off, waving away her hand. A clench in his jaw briefly. “I said I was fine.”

“Not for you,” she placates, again prying at his fingers holding the bag of ice. “For me. So I know I couldn’t have done anything else.” She gives up on the death grip that are his fingers, instead softly tugging on his wrist. “C’mon, you’ll help me get a good night’s sleep tonight.”

“Don’t I always,” he smirks, a split in his lip on his other side. If it hurts, he doesn’t show it. Another stubborn sigh, and he’s finally lowering the bag down to his lap. 

Clarke visibly winces at the cut stretching across his cheekbone, the swelling of his reddened skin and the faint bruising starting to form below his eye. Jesus. He must have been wearing a ring. 

“You should see the other guy,” Bellamy says, lamely, undercut when she presses her fingers into his skin with all the tact of a toddler exploring a ball pit, making him hiss out in pain. 

“I did,” Clarke deadpans, feeling around for any fractures carefully. They seem to be mostly intact. She snorts, fingertips grazing along his jaw before dropping them completely, curling them into a fist to keep them from doing it again. “You’re lucky if he doesn’t press charges.”

“He won’t,” he grumbles, gruff, pressing his thumb and forefinger into his eye sockets briefly. She won’t be surprised if he has a massive headache blooming. “Mbege deals harddrugs. He won’t risk it.”

Clarke hugs herself, hoping to shield herself from the cold. She appraises him quietly; the dark distanced look in his brown eyes, the half-empty pack of cigarettes sticking from his back pocket as he leans forward on his elbows, the blood stains on the front of his white shirt. He’s not drunk, there’s not some girl out here with him swooning over his heroics. Aggravation slips into her voice, “Why even pick a fight?”

He bristles, shifting a little so his body is twisted towards her more, one knee resting on the crate. His nostrils flare briefly. “Why do you assume I started it?”

She sends him a pointed look, hunching her shoulders just a little to suppress a shiver running down her back. Couldn’t he have licked his wounds in the men’s bathroom? 

Bellamy sighs, raking a hand through his hair roughly, knuckles split and bruised. “It was nothing.”

“Oh, _sure_ ,” she huffs, bratty, because she can’t help it. “That seems like the right justification.”

Suddenly he’s shrugging out of his jacket, draping it over her shoulders. It’s not leather, thank god, and the numbness settling in the tips of her fingers is the only reason she takes it. He doesn’t mention it, doesn’t make a dig out of it, or worse, a line, for which she is grateful. He seems to preoccupied, eyes darting everywhere as he seems to wonder how to put it into words without revealing too much, “Just some shit about my family. He shouldn’t have said it.”

He looks sad, and she doesn’t know how to comfort him. It’s not really what they do, and Clarke is bad with emotions. She’s heard about him -- girls doing a bad job whispering in the library, one of his friends in front of her in the lecture hall offhandedly mentioning _‘Blake’s mommy issues’_ boasting about his friday night. His dead mother, his resentful sister. Not much, but enough to get the message it was a rough subject for him.

Clarke pulls the jacket tighter around her shoulder, burying into it’s warmth. It smells like him, heady, something comforting about laundry detergent, and the hint of smoke. “You should learn how to use your words.”

It seems to spark something more alive in him, something she does a better job at recognizing. “They don’t seem to work on you.”

When she looks at him, his eyes, which is really the only part of him she can see from this angle with the bag covering half of his face, are crinkled with laughter, and she’s struck by how beautiful he is, filtered by the streetlight, even like this. Broken.

Then he ruins it, by putting his hand on her thigh. His voice suddenly huskier, although it doesn’t have it’s usual edge to it, “Or do they?”

“No, you were right,” Clarke agrees, although her voice shakes slightly, hooking her thumb in the hem of her striped t-shirt, pulling it down, a nervous habit, as if that’ll somehow shield her. It’s meant to sound heated, but it does far from, when she can’t stop her eyes from flicking down to his hand and back up his face, “I can’t believe you manage to downgrade every serious conversation to a pick-up line.”

He lowers the bag, tossing it onto the ground by his feet with a small thud. The corners of his mouth turn up, teasingly, thumb rubbing into her jean-clad thigh, small circular movements making her mouth dry up. “We could have tons of serious conversations, princess, anything you want.”

Clarke huffs, the sound hoarse, skin flaming as she licks her lips. She should push him off, make the message clear, but for some reason, she’s frozen. Existing in this small vacuum of time and space that doesn’t seem real, in the back alley of some shitty bar she didn’t even want to go to, his hand warm on her thigh as she desperately pretends she doesn’t want this. “As long as you get your dick wet, you mean.”

His eyebrows jump, his expression muted. “You think so low of me.”

She raises her eyebrow, knocking her knee into his so his hand finally falls away. “Can you blame me?”

Bellamy stifles a grin, and then suddenly he’s rising to his feet. “Thanks for your help,” he says, genuine, offering her a hand. “Can I walk you home?”

“No,” she says immediately, instinctively at this point, then softens a little, taking his hand so he can help pull her to her feet. She ends up standing closer to him than necessary, almost bumping into him because of the force, shaking her head as she takes a small step back, avoiding eye-contact. She scrapes her throat, “I mean, I’m here with friends.”

His grin grows, thumb brushing over her knuckles. It reminds her he’s still holding her hand, and how that’s kind of intimate, and how her pulse skyrockets at the realisation, so she tugs it free. “Friends, as in plural?”

Clarke rolls her eyes at the amusement in his voice, lodging her thumbs into her back pockets. “Yeah.” Not really. She knows most of them think she is too bossy, and they only invited her out of politeness, but he doesn’t need to know that. “I’m not who you think I am after all.”

“Look at you, princess,” Bellamy teases with a shit-eating grin, but he sounds genuine. He playfully jostles her side with his hand, gently. “Proud of you.”

“Shut up,” she mumbles, fighting a smile as she ducks her head. A moment passes in which she’s just holding his gaze, intense and fond on hers. Something starts to grow in her lower belly, warm and wanting and then she remembers where she is, who she is, and starts to push the jacket -- his jacket -- off her frame, tugging her bottom lip between her teeth briefly. She doesn’t look at him as she stammers, “I should get back inside.”

He’s still smiling like an idiot, like he knows something she doesn’t, like she is oh so amusing, and it’s annoying. He takes the jacket from her after she’s been holding it out for over ten long seconds, relenting with a smug quirk of his lips, “Probably.”

She opens her mouth, still looking at him. Then she shakes her head, turning 90 degrees as she gives him one more look. His face is unreadable, bar that secretive glint in his eyes. She doesn’t know what she hopes will happen. Does she want him to stop her, beg her to stay? She’s not that kind of girl. “Okay.”

“Okay,” he echoes, mouth twitching with amusement, and she realizes he’s probably not laughing with her, but at her and she shouldn’t forget that in the end, he’s just an ass.

Clarke nods, but it falters and takes her a few tries, turning around completely as she quickly makes her way back inside. She doesn’t look back again, too afraid she won’t be able to find the strength to keep going.

~

One moment, she’s entertaining Finn’s obvious attempt at flirting with her out of pure boredom, and then she’s excusing herself to get some fresh air out on the patio, and the next, she’s being pulled into a dark closet. 

Clarke immediately knows it’s him, heart hammering in her chest as her initial fear ebbs away slowly, replaced with contempt. “What are you doing?”

His fingertips dig into her biceps, and in the dark, it’s hard to make out his face, but there’s definitely a furrow between his brows that she would like to smooth out. “I could ask you the same.”

She shrugs her shoulders until he drops his hand, his touch making it too hard to think. She’s had a wine cooler or two, and her head’s already kind of hazy, not really sure what the hell he’s talking about. “You’re the one who dragged me in here.”

Bellamy scoffs, exhaling loudly through his nose, and her vision is starting to adjust, because she can definitely make out the tick in his jaw. “You know he has a girlfriend, right?”

Okay, she is seriously so confused. Or enthralled by his jawline. Or both. “Who?”

“Finn,” he seethes, disgusted, the name exploding out of him, and suddenly everything makes sense. He’s just being an entitled, possessive asshole. 

Like Finn gets her all hot and bothered with his cheesy lines and his sweaty palms and his awkwardly timed jokes. Like he’s anywhere near on her busy, racing mind, anywhere near the reason she so frustrated all the time now, the reason she can’t seem to fall asleep without touching herself first these days. She’s told him before, she’s not here to fuck around. Least of all with Finn Collins.

“I wasn’t interested,” Clarke declares calmly, then shoves him, for good measure. She doesn’t know why she is getting upset, but she is. And it gratifies her greatly when he looks shocked at her force, even for just a second. “And even if I was, that’s none of your business.” There’s a tense silence, air growing heavy, and Clarke doesn’t know why, what she’s hoping it’ll accomplish, but after a beat, she presses, boldly, “You don’t _own_ me.”

“Don’t I?” He practically growls, his big hand completely cups her pussy, over her dress, pressing her right up against the wall. His breath smells like whiskey, and heat radiates off his body, so close to hers. “Haven’t you been saving this for me?”

She whimpers, embarrassed with the way wetness seems to surge from her centre and pool in her panties all at once. However, she can’t help but be contrary, ignoring her rapid pulse as she bites, “Other people have touched me before, you know this, right?”

Bellamy seems to consider it seriously. He rubs her a few times, petting her almost. It should make her feel ridiculous, silly, instead it just sparks more heat inside her core. “With their hands?”

It takes her a moment, but then she nods, shakily. For the first time when she was fourteen, with some girl from her mother’s country club who was in the middle of her rebel phase. Glass had pink hair and a vivid hatred for her stepmother. They laid out by the pool in her backyard when her parents weren’t home -- or that’s what she told her at least -- and leisurely, but with nervous excitement all the same, explored each other’s bodies. It wasn’t a phase for Clarke, though. 

He ducks his head and takes her earlobe into his mouth, tugging lightly before pressing a kiss right to the tight tendon in her neck straining below it. “Mouth?”

Clarke hesitates, not sure she wants him to hold this much power over her. Her body seems to think otherwise, giving him a small shake of her head before she’s even fully processed it. She went down on Lexa once, but it all went to shit before she ever got to repay the favor. 

One of his eyebrows quirks up, almost satisfied, and it has her boiling with rage. It’s quickly replaced with shame when he prompts, “Have you ever taken a cock?”

She blushes furiously, squirming in his hold. It’s not really a nod, or a shake of her head, but the answer is obvious anyway, as far as she can tell from his shit-eating grin.

He presses a kiss to the corner of her mouth, hand moving from her pussy to her ass, grabbing a handful as if it’s some reward. “Good.”

Clarke loathes the way her body glows with the word, like it even matters that she’s a virgin, an extremely misogynistic concept to begin with, like that is even anything that holds weight in this world they live in. It disgusts her how her body seems to think any praise is good praise, like somehow she committed some respectable act by resisting temptation, like it’s not just a complex set of circumstances influenced by multiple factors that brought her here, like not having sex, a natural thing, is an honor worth rewarding, by being pure and untouched in the way that seems to matter least of all. It’s horrifying, the way her body responds. Primal.

“What’s next, a hymen check?” She scowls, bitterly, make an half-hearted attempt at pushing him off, hoping it’s not too obvious she’s seriously overcompensating. “You’re being ridiculous.”

He doesn’t budge, pulling his head back to look her straight in the eye. This seems to make her feel the most uncomfortable out of all the things he’s done to her, too close, too intimate. His intense brown eyes overwhelming in every way, even if they’re not at full force because of the darkness. His voice rough as he speaks, not quite a question, more the implication he seems to know her better than she knows herself, “You like it though, the thought of me being your first.”

It pisses her off that he’s right. There must be something wrong with her.

“I’m not losing my virginity to you,” she states, stubbornly, lips pursing into a determined pout.

“Don’t worry,” he murmurs, almost endeared, a hand coming up to stroke her hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear gently. She’s worn it down for the first time in a long while, maybe in his presence, and he seems to like it, his eyes continuously flickering back to the blonde strands when he thinks she’s not looking. His forehead presses against hers, thumb brushing over her cheekbone, and her next inhale is sharp and stutters in her chest. His breath hot against her mouth, so close but too far, as he promises, “You’ll be giving it to me.”

Clarke screws her eyes shut, small hand coming up on the back of his neck, not finding enough strength within her to push him away herself, so she says a quick prayer, hoping her words will. “You just want me because I’m the first girl who’s dared to say no to you.”

He lifts his shoulders, crowding her space even more as he moves his lower body closer to hers, both hands gripping her waist now, nuzzling her nose. He’s hard against her belly, and it makes her skin buzz with nerves. She’s never seen one in real life, let alone felt it pressed up against her. Her mind not quite wrapping around the fact that she could do this to someone, that she did this to him. “Maybe at first.” 

She swallows, hard, searching his face in the dark. There’s some light, coming from the crack underneath the door, but not nearly enough to be able to make out his usually expressive eyes in detail. So she asks, half curious, half anxious, “What about now?”

He leans in closer, and she holds her breath. He kisses her slightly pouty bottom lip, the touch almost ghost-like. “I like how smart you are.” Her top lip is next, his fingers grazing along her ribs. It takes everything in her not to squirm. “Ambitious.” He’s moved into the corner of her mouth, lips grazing her skin as he adds, smile evident in his voice, “Stubborn.”

Which is fratboy code for ‘she isn’t his usual type, which is a bimbo with worms for brain’ and ‘a challenge’ at that, she knows this, of course she knows this, he just likes the chase, if she gives him what he wants it’ll be like he was never even there, and yet her knees are still buckling as she melts into him, nails biting into the base of his neck.

“You’re doing so well. Working so hard,” he praises her, dragging his mouth down her neck, nipping and sucking at her pulsepoint, kissing across her collarbone, in stark contrast with the soothing way he’s rubbing his hands up and down her sides, drawing sounds from her she doesn’t recognize. “Don’t you deserve a little reward?”

She just hums, afraid that if she uses too many words she’ll blurt out something she shouldn’t be saying. He lifts her up against the wall easily, hands sliding up the back of her thighs as her legs automatically wrap around his waist. “Baby, just let me make you feel good, okay?”

Her head lolls back against the wall, more than willing to give him more access to her neck. Her skin feels too small for body, hot and overstrung. She knows this is stupid. She shouldn’t have even come to this party to begin with. Monty is her only friend, and she kept disappointing him by saying no. She didn’t want to be so uptight all the time, like everyone accuses her of being. Look where it’s gotten her. 

He sucks a mark into her skin, right below her clavicle, fingers pushing aside her cotton panties to sink into her without warning. She gasps, squeezing her eyes shut at the sudden intrusion, involuntarily bucking up against him. It stings just a little, but turns nice fast.

“Such a pretty girl,” Bellamy murmurs, sweetly, appreciatively, pushing his weight into her to hold her up. He’s big, and warm, and it feels safe in a way she’s never experienced before. He crooks his fingers the next time he pumps into her, sending stars bursting behind her eyelids. “My pretty girl. Looking so good in that dress.” His other hand comes up to squeeze her breast, flick at nipple through the thin material of her dress and bra. “Did you dress up all for me, baby?”

(She hates the nickname. She loves it.)

“No,” she forces out, breathily, obviously lying as a layer of sweat starts to form on her forehead. It’s a simple red, off-the-shoulder sundress, nothing too risky and still relatively modest, but she can’t deny she hoped it would make his gaze linger on her tonight. Yet she spent most of the night sipping on lukewarm drinks and tugging down the hem, Bellamy nowhere to be seen. 

His responding chuckle is hot against her collarbone, thumb pressing down on her clit hard, earning him a squeak, her cheeks hot. She can feel his smirk against her neck, and she’s close, so close. Electric tingles of pleasure shooting up her spine, rising and building like a thunderstorm.

“Come on, princess, show me what you look like when you come,” he spurs her on quietly, mouthing at her jaw, hitting a spot inside her she didn’t even know was there. Clarke trashes against the wall, feeling like she can’t quite catch her breath, and the nickname that usually sparks nothing more but resentment to pulse through her veins, now spreads something entirely different as she involuntarily clenches down onto his fingers. “Bet you look so gorgeous, coming for me.”

She gasps as tingles turn into shocks, little lightning bolts of bliss, her entire body feeling like it’s on the verge of something big and frightening. And it overwhelms her, standing on the ledge waiting for him to push her over, this feeling of impending doom clouding anything else she might be feeling in this moment. 

It’s too much. This isn’t her. In a frat house closet, coat hanger digging into her shoulder, a guy she barely knows with his fingers inside her. 

“No,” she breathes, shaking her head, once, and then rougher, limbs kickstarting into action as she starts pushing him away. Distance, she needs distance. “Stop.”

He immediately falls back, her body lowered to the floor as her head still seems to swim, almost pleasure making her hands tremble, a confused look on his face. He opens his mouth, but she cuts him off.

“I can’t,” she explains, running a hand through her hair. It gets caught on a knot, and she winces. It’s because of the hairspray. She never uses fucking hairspray, it’s pathetic. Clarifying, she adds, holding up a hand, “I won’t.”

She slips out of the closet before he has time to protest, before she can make out the expression on his face, commit it to memory. She has enough to feel guilty about.

  
  


~

The girls’ and boys’ dorm share a communal kitchen, and it’s here he finds her at two am on a Tuesday eating cookie dough straight from the pre-made packaging, on a quick break from slamming down her midterm take-home essays. 

He stumbles in smelling like a frat boy, opening one of the cupboards to take out a glass, opening the fridge to pull out a bottle of coke. It’s labeled with Atom’s name, but Clarke refuses to be the one to break the silence. It’s awkward enough, being in the same room with him, knowing he’s been -- no.

She puts down her spoon, appetite gone and instead long replaced with a knot in her stomach, gripping the counter tightly as she stares at the A4 stuck onto the wall with duct tape. She stares at the letters reminding her to clean up her shit, silently hoping that maybe for once he’ll just let her be, finish his drink and go to his room.

His fingers brush the tight braid at the back of her head, grazing along her spine before moving back up to tuck a wisp of hair by her temple behind her ear, tips skimming along her clenched jaw. She’s frozen under his exploritative touch, trying to keep herself from leaning in to it. “Hi pretty girl,” he murmurs, lazily, thumb brushing over her bottom lip, and it sets her off. 

He probably just came home from fucking some other girl, and here he is, invading her space, being overwhelming and confusing and frustrating, and fucking _relentless_. She hates him, and she hates how she can’t hate him. So she takes it out on him, voice like venom as she slaps his hand away roughly, turning to glare at him, “You think I don’t have you figured out?”

He pulls back from her, startled, and she thinks _good,_ crossing her arms over her chest as she steps into his space, shoulders straight and neck craning to glare up at him _._

He thinks she hasn’t been paying attention, that she was slowly being swooned by his single-minded charm and his blinding smile like everyone else, that she hasn’t noticed _him_. The real him. As if she can’t see right through him, the act he puts on. 

He doesn’t go to all his classes, because he doesn’t have to. He’s smart. He’s not a perfect student, far from, and he’s chaotic, but he does do the work. She’s even seen him at the tutor centre, which at first seemed like a big cosmic joke and just another way to get into some girl’s pants, but then she listened to him explain the difference between feudalism and a vassal state to some spotty freshman kid over and over again, the epitome of patience, and she realized the way he was presenting himself wasn’t real, not all of it. 

It’s all just a mask -- the selfishness, the arrogance, the casual apathy. He doesn’t want anyone to know the real him. The guy who is a super senior because the first two years of college he worked himself to death trying to provide for his mother and sister at home. That now his mom is dead and his sister doesn’t speak to him anymore, so he loses himself in frat parties, and cheap disgusting beer, and meaningless connections with girls who won’t remember him a month from now. And he’s angry, with the untouchable, with the world, with himself, and so he picks fights. 

He doesn’t want anyone to know, because if they do, he’ll have to acknowledge it himself first. And then he’ll have to acknowledge how much he hates himself, how he can barely stand to be alone in a room with himself, how much of this behaviour is just to punish himself for things that aren’t in his control.

Clarke huffs, looking him up and down before tipping her jaw up slightly. “All of this is just an act,” she bites bitterly, and it feels good to say it out loud, to have the upperhand for once, watch his face fall. “You pretend you’re this bad boy but you’re just trying to cover up who you really are. You’re a coward.”

His nostrils flare as he stares down at her in disbelief, “I’m a coward?” He pretends the words taste foul in his mouth, mouth twisting. “You hide behind your books and your perfect little reputation, hoping no one will notice you’re really just empty inside.”

Maybe he’d been paying attention too. 

Clarke falters, just briefly, but enough to show him there’s a crack in her carefully crafted armor. “I’m not empty inside,” she insists, but her voice sounds hollow and her mouth feels like cotton. 

“No?” He snaps, meanly, leaning down enough to make her stumble back into the counter. He doesn’t back down this time, keeps pushing and pushing, “Then show me you feel something, Clarke.” The words echo in her head, and she has nothing to prove to him, or anyone else, but she’s tired of pretending, pretending he doesn’t make her feel things she doesn’t want to, that it doesn’t scare her, how he makes her feel alive. “Show me you’re not hiding.”

Clarke screws her eyes shut firmly, getting on her tiptoes to smack a dry, chaste kiss to his mouth. Shy, almost. Her heart hammers in her chest as she stares up at him, hoping he’ll take it from here. He doesn’t, his face blank, safe from the crease in his forehead, his chest moving up and down heavily. 

So she winds her hands in his hair, pulling his mouth on top of hers, knowing this, this is something she’s good at. The push and pull of their mouths, tongues gliding together, fingers gripping faces and hair. Guided, gentle, smooth. This is something she _likes_. Having spends hours making out with soft girls and kind boys, exploring. Desire grows, prickles her skin everywhere, and their kisses wade from gentle and reverent to hard and demanding, which is usually where she would cut it off. 

Clarke doesn’t know how to do the next part, and it terrifies her, the thought she might not be any good at it. Just know she craves it as much as her lungs crave a fresh breath of oxygen after every kiss they share.

She’s shaking at this point, from the energy, pure and simple, building and simmering with the urge to keep him close, _feel_ him. “It’s okay,” he pants, voice soft, in stark contrast with his bruising fingers on her jaw, like if he lets go she might disappear, “You want to stop?”

“No,” she breathes, not more than a whimper, but obviously decisive. Because this, this is everyone he pretends not to be, and still he can’t help himself. She sees him, and he sees her.

His hand trickles up past her ribs, ghosting over her breast. At her little gasp, he launches forward, pressing himself against her, hard. One hand slides under her sleep shirt easily, earning him a squeaky whimper as his fingers grip her breast tightly. She presses her thighs together, shame pulsing through her system at the fact she’s letting him grope her in the communal kitchen. 

His other hand has slide down from her jaw, lingering on her neck, squeezing affectionately against the little whimper she let out. 

“You like this, huh?” He breathes into her mouth, thumb flicking over nipple harshly, sending a jolt of pleasure up a spine. “Thinking about someone walking in, seeing me ruin your spotless little reputation.”

Bellamy pinches her nipple next, and she gasps into his open mouth, tongue slick and hot against his as her legs twitch, fingers gripping his shoulder blades tightly. “Touch me, please,” she begs, arching up into him, at a loss for any words, any smart retorts, witty replies. Just want.

“My roommate’s out,” he says with a sharp inhale, at least one of them thinking clearly, motioning down the hall with a nudge of his head. She’s not an idiot, knows she’s probably romanticizing this moment, him. That, in a month from now, they’ll pass each other by in the hallway, and he won’t even spare her a second glance. But none of that matters, none of that even remotely matters when it feels this good. 

So she nods against him, biting down on her bottom lip, letting him intertwine her fingers and pull her down the narrow hallway. She’s down on his bed within seconds, and he’s already tugging on her shirt. 

“Up, lean up,” he encourages, watching her back arch off the mattress to obey him. “There, that’s my good girl,” he cooes, smiling as he notes the way her thighs squeeze together at the praise, her chest heaving up and down heavily as his hands rub up her bare sides, taking her in, “My pretty girl.”

Bellamy pulls off his own shirt before he leans back down to kiss her, gentle, coaxing her out of her shell as his thumbs brush over her ribs soothingly. Her flushed body bends under his touch, yearning for more, bare breasts pressing into him. 

“So eager,” he mumbles against her lips, pressing another chaste kiss to her pink mouth, one of his fingers trailing the waistband of her sleeping shorts, making her stomach dip like a jolt. “You want to take these off for me?”

Clarke finds herself nodding, breathless, making sure to hook her thumbs into her underwear as well and pushing them down over her hips. He watches her closely, the sway of her hips and the wiggle of her torso, and she swallows hard, repressing the urge to cover herself up.

Her cheeks are hot as he starts kissing down her neck, telling her how gorgeous she looks, how happy he is he gets to touch her, how he can’t believe she’s all his. A strangled moan spills from her lips as he takes one of her nipples into his mouth, her nails biting into the beautiful brown skin stretching across his chest to keep from embarrassing herself any further. 

“You’re so good to me,” he gloats, admiration all over his face, and his scent is overwhelming, so up close. “Aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” she chokes out, her knees trembling, desperate with it. “Please, just -- touch me. Kiss me. Any-anything.”

He sucks her other nipple into his mouth, releasing it with a small bite, making her squeak. He leans back on his knees so he can look at her, kneading her hips gently. “God, you should see how pretty you look right now. Saying ‘please’ for me. You use such nice words, princess.” One of his hands moves up her stomach, sliding over her sternum, where it comes to rest. “You like being a good girl for me, right?”

Clarke nods eagerly, his sheets messing up her braid, and she swallows tightly. Splotchy red marks forming all over her chest and up her neck, where he moves his hand next, thumb resting over the little dip in her chin. “What else do you like?”

Her breath hitches, her centre aching, knees spreading unconsciously as she dips her head to kiss the tip of his finger. “Show me, please.”

Bellamy roughly runs a hand through his hair, cursing under his breath, “You tell me if it’s too much, okay?”

She just nods, watching his head disappear between her legs, fingers of one hand curling into his hair, the other in the sheets, desperate for some purchase. Body jittery with anticipation as he kisses his way up her thigh, sucking a mark into the delicate skin. 

He keeps eye-contact as his mouth reaches where she really wants him. Her pussy, red and swollen, aching for him. Holds it even when he uses one hand to spread her folds, and when he licks a stripe up her slit. Her nails scrape his head, trying to breathe through it, all these new sensations and this overwhelming shyness. 

“Okay?” He mutters against her heat, teasingly, and she needs a moment to form the words, vibrations making her eyes roll into the back of her head. “Y-yeah, yes. Please.”

He hums against her in approval, other hand gliding back over her soft stomach to pluck at her nipple again. Pleasure flows through her entire body, a mild trickle, slowly spreading with each lash of his tongue.

All she can do is moan, try to keep still enough to let him do what he wants to her as his tongue circles her tight entrance, swirls around her swollen bud. Keep her legs open for him like any good girl would. Shame still coats the back of her mind at the thought of having him so close to somewhere so private, but it’s quickly replaced with something better, more productive -- a need, so desperate, so primal, it drives her crazy.

Her whole body feels like it’s gleaming, rippling with that need as two of his fingers sink inside of her. His hand kneading her breast as he sucks her clit into her mouth without warning, hard, and it only takes a few pumps of his thick fingers to turn that trickle turns into a river, threatening to sweep her away, until it does. Until he praises how wet she is, her sweet taste, the little sounds she makes, and her orgasm is crashing into her like a tidal wave, threatening to drown her.

Clarke’s entire body twitches, bucking up into his face as her mouth parts into a silent scream, teeth digging into her bottom lip to keep from making any actual sounds. 

She doesn’t know how long it takes her to come down, doesn’t really register anything until he’s tugging her lip free with his thumb. “Don’t do that the next time, okay?” He scolds half-heartedly, other hand kneading her thigh, “I want to hear you.”

She can only nod, embarrassed by the way his mouth glistens in the dim lighting, by how vulnerable she just was in front of him, by the assurance in his voice as he said next time, looking away. 

Bellamy cups her chin, shifting her face back to look at him. The look in his eyes is so tender, she’s breathless all over again. His voice soft, gentle, as if coaxing her, “Don’t be embarrassed. You deserve this. Good girls know their worth.”

She’s hit with an embarrassing wave of arousal, so hard, that she has to pull him down to kiss him, afraid that if he looks at her too long, she’ll give it all away. Their mouths move together slowly, and his hands instinctively moving back up to squeeze her breasts and push them together like he can’t stop himself, fingers working her nipples, slowly working her back up. He tastes funny, and it takes her a few dirty, sloppy kisses to realize she’s tasting herself. It draws even more heat to her cheeks, firmly grasping the curls at the back of his head. 

Clarke realizes she hasn’t really been a good student so far, only taking and not giving in return. Tentatively, she snakes one small hand in between them, hovering over his crotch before cupping his hardness softly. He hisses at the contact, the frustrated groan spilling from his red mouth replacing her eagerness with concern, and for a second she thinks she’s hurt him, quickly pulling her hand back as she shoves him off her. 

“No, no,” he mutters quickly, hastily, taking her hand in his and pushing it against his hard dick, straining against his zipper. “You just surprised me, princess.”

Happy she hasn’t disappointed him, she pushes herself up on her elbow, sinking her teeth into her lip as she carefully tests it out, squeezing softly. The small sound rumbling deep in his chest sends her clenching down on nothing, but she looks up at him through his lashes to make sure it’s okay. His face is strained, jaw tight. “You want to touch it for real?”

“Yes, please,” she says, sweet and obedient, and his blown pupils seem to turn even darker. He starts to unzip his pants, moving off his bunk to step out of it and his boxers. 

Clarke moves onto her knees by the edge of the bed, waiting patiently with her hands on her thighs as he comes to stand in front of her. He palms himself with one hand, stroking her hair with the other softly. Lip caught between her teeth, her blue eyes are drawn to his cock, thick and proud, glistening at the tip. 

She swallows heavily, reaching out to touch him. His hand stills on her head, fingers weaving into her hair tightly instead. She doesn’t really know what she’s supposed to be doing, most of her basic knowledge from the occasional porn video if she’s in the mood for boy/girl, so she just grips him, tightly. 

She starts moving her hand, but it feels wrong, unnatural, so she releases him, licking her palm so the next time she tugs on his length, she slides along easier. Bellamy chuckles lowly, scratching her head with his nails softly, “You’re a fast learner.”

His praise makes her gleam, a soft warmth spreading across her chest, but also makes her want to do better, so she leans forward, pressing a chaste kiss to the wet head of his cock. His hips buck up into her face, obviously not expecting it. A curse spills from his lips though, which gives Clarke more than enough courage to start out with a few kitten licks around his head, flipping her now very loose braid back over her shoulder. 

He tugs on her hair so tightly, it almost hurts, but instead of it turning her off, it just makes more wetness surge from her center. She gets more enthusiastic, taking the first few inches of his cock into her mouth, the taste salty but good, and pulling back off with a small pop before diving back in. 

Apparently he’s not good at just receiving either, because his free hand disappears back in between her legs, grazing the curls above her heat. One of her hands shoots out to steady herself against his forearm as his knuckles graze her clit. 

Clarke pulls off him all at once, mouth wet and panting harshly. “Fuck me, Bellamy.”

“Okay,” he rasps, exasperated, fingers releasing her hair to wipe at her pink lips with the heel of his hand, and the time for games is really over. Just as desperate for her now as she is for him. “Lie down.”

“Wait,” Bellamy says, before she can lie back down completely. She obeys, and he reaches behind her to pull her hair tie from her braid, pulling at it until the soft blonde waves spill down her shoulders. “Better,” he smiles, sweet, and her heart flutters. 

His crawls back on top of her, and it’s so much different now, both of them naked, on the precipice of something new and thrilling. It’s so much more real now, not a daydream fantasy creeping in the darkest corners of her mind, it’s actually happening. His skin hot and sticky against her, his weight heavy on top of her, his mouth firm as he licks back into her mouth. 

His fingers slide along her slit, rocking back and forth to test how wet she is. They come to a rest above her heat, right over the dewy curls. 

“Bellamy,” she croaks, and he relents, pushing one of his fingers inside her. Another follows, and then one more, and her eyes spring open, blazing on his as she adjusts to the slow stretch inside of her. 

“Gotta make sure you’re ready, baby,” he cooes, rubbing her clit a few times, so the sparks going up her spine send another warm smoldering feeling alight in her lower stomach. 

“I’m -- I’m ready,” Clarke tells him, stubbornly, widening her legs to draw him in deeper. The movement makes his cock brush right up against her lower belly, making him groan. “Please.”

He growls, pulling back his hand and leaning down to kiss her shortly, voice like gravel. “Can’t say no to you.”

Bellamy quickly grabs a condom from his nightstand, rolling it on expertly before he lines himself up with her, holding his weight up with one elbow, and Clarke lets out a shuddery breath, pulling him close enough so she can hug him to her chest, lips pressing against his shoulder. 

“You’re okay,” he says, confidently, folding his hands around the back of her knees and pushing them towards her chest. “Don’t worry. You were made for me.”

She kisses his shoulder in lieu of an answer, closing her eyes as she braces for impact. His cock brushes her entrance, and then he’s pressing inside, slowly. At first, it burns. The stretch uncomfortable and unfamiliar, and every time she thinks he’s done moving, there’s more. 

It feels hard to breathe, every inhale reminding her of the sting between her legs, and every exhale doing nothing to ease it away. Bellamy seems to notice her sudden panic and pulls back just enough to gather her hair at her neck, the sudden chill nice on her overheated skin as he mouths at her collarbone softly. “Relax,” he tells her, gently. 

And she tries. Clarke tries to remember what she liked, before, untangling his hand from her hair to move it towards her breast. He understands, kneading her chest as she tries to lose herself in the mark he’s sucking on her shoulder. She squeezes her eyes shut, realizing it’s not enough. Her voice breathy, “Will you -- will you kiss me?”

Bellamy leans back up to connect their mouth, rocking up and down inside of her without pushing in further, the sensation just enough to make her mind hazy, the world around them turning fuzzy. She just feels him, his fingers palming her breast, his sweet kisses threatening to drown her, muttering words of praise into her skin, “You’re doing so good. You’re taking me so well.” It’s all she needs to lose her focus. 

It’s not long before she notices he’s trembling in her arms with the effort of holding back and it causes a surge of affection to ripple through her. She keeps kissing his shoulder, whispering at him to go on, take her. The head of his cock brushes right up to her cervix on his last push, and the sudden pressure makes her cry out. It’s so much, it’s making her dizzy. 

More slow kisses, more moans, more shallow grinding, and she’s ready. Shivering as she breaks out into a sweat, clinging to him. They both know it’s time now. 

“I got you,” he whispers, moving out slowly before he pushes back in. This time feels better, and on the next thrust she can relax even more around him, drawing a moan from her as he brushes right over a sensitive spot.

Her memory whites out at this point, just the image of his face swimming behind her eyelids, the feeling of having him so close to her, of giving herself to someone in every way possible. Him. 

Her heated blood rushes and throbs in her body, not being able to do much more than make small noises of pleasure as he lifts her hips a little, big hands resting just above her ass, the different angle making her gasp out in pleasure amidst the wet slaps of skin on skin. 

His thrusts speed up, harder each time he slams back in, and when her next cry coincides with a violent tightening of her cunt around his cock, he breaks, too close for comfort. 

“That’s it,” he encourages her, fingers coming down to work her clit, breasts sliding against him with each thrust. Her body feels hot all over, every nerve ending on fire. “Come on, watch, baby. See how good it looks. My cock disappearing into your pussy. So tight, so hot. Made all for me.”

Her face glows with the heat pushing through the both of them, and the sensation builds as she dares to look down at the way he’s driving himself into her, the view of his cock disappearing into her heat mesmerizing. Keeps building, until it explodes like a volcano. 

This time, she remembers not to stay quiet, crying out loudly as she bucks up against his fingers, until she’s hot and overstimulated, pushing his hand away from her clit. Her entire body twitches every time he slams back into her, but it doesn’t take long for him to tense and spill inside of her. 

Clarke hugs him tightly to her body, his arms wrapping around her small frame to squeeze her closer until her breasts are pillowed against his chest, and his sweaty face is buried in her hair. Taking deep breaths to calm themselves back down. She closes her eyes, absently stroking his back. It’s nice, like this. 

Eventually he starts to pull back, pressing lazy kisses to her neck before reaching her mouth for a long, slow kiss. He plants kisses on her jaw, a little peck on her nose that makes her scrunch it up. “Stay.”

Clarke doesn’t have it in her to argue right now, exhausted beyond reason, so she just nods, waiting for him to get rid of the condom and return to her. He brings a damp washcloth, quickly cleaning in between her legs -- a gesture somehow more intimate than everything else they just did -- before tossing it in his hamper across the room and collapsing beside her. 

She lets herself curl into his heat, and somehow she finds herself thinking of her high school sex ed classes instead of the fastest way to get out of here, which is quite clearly out of his bed and through the door.

“I should pee,” she mumbles into his chest, sleepily, and he just hums in agreement, dim laughter laced with the sound as he pulls her in closer. A quick nap, and then she’ll pee, she tells herself, allowing herself to fall into the warm safety of darkness with him. 

~

She manages to avoid him for the entirety of the three whole hours post rolling out of his bed and doing the walk of shame down the dorm hallway, back to her own room. Her face burning with humiliation as her roommate casually wondered where she’d been all night, using half of her bottle of concealer to cover up the marks all over her neck, keeping her head down as she grabbed a quick breakfast at the cafeteria. 

After the heat of the moment had passed, and brilliantly so, it couldn’t have been more clear she made a mistake. She sat through her first two classes on autopilot, barely hearing a word of what was being said. What did she think would happen? Being so vulnerable with him, exposing herself in a way she should’ve never done? She got caught up, and he’ll never look at her the same. He’ll always have a part of her, will always know he does. She can’t ever take it back, and now she’s right back where she was last year. Distracted. 

Clarke hears him call her name down the quad before she sees him, quickly speeding up in hopes of making it to her next class before he catches her. Of course, she isn’t fast enough, and he’s grabbing her by the arm to force her to come to a stop. She yanks it free, refusing to look at him. “Just leave me alone.” 

“What the hell, Clarke?” He actually sounds upset, a dark look on his face, nostrils flaring. He never uses her real name unless he’s serious. 

She flicks her eyes up to the sky, hugging her arms to her body protectively as she grits, “You got what you wanted so now you can go back to ignoring me.”

Bellamy makes this weird sound, half delirious laughter, half increduled huff of air, throwing up his hands in defeat. “I can’t ignore you. That’s the problem, princess.”

She startles, looking around the quad for a moment to make sure no one is listening in. Clarke tightens her grip on the strap of the tote hanging from her shoulder, speaking in a hushed tone, “Save the lines for someone who cares, Bellamy.”

He frowns. “But you do.”

“No, I don’t,” she spits, hoping that if she keeps saying it, if she keeps relishing in the frustration coursing through her veins, if she keeps channeling her misplaced anger at him, it’ll end up being true. 

“Yes, you do,” he pushes back, frantic and frustrated. “You like me, just admit it.”

She narrows her eyes at him, determined. “I’ll _never_ do such a thing.”

Bellamy’s eyes darken, his face hardening. “Like you would never give me your virginity?”

She tilts her head back, processing his low blow. “Stop playing games,” she seethes, blood boiling as she takes another step into his direction. “You already won the prize. Go tell your idiot friends you finally got Clarke Griffin to give it up--”

He huffs, a kind of delayed response as he tugs on his hair in frustration. “You really think I’m just the biggest piece of shit walking around on this campus, huh?”

She freezes, lifting her shoulder in a half-shrug at a lack of something better to say. She’s come to expect the worst of people. “Be real with me, Bellamy. You’re not seriously going to tell me you’re in love with me, that you’re planning on having me take your last name after you graduate, or something ridiculous like that?”

“Fuck no,” he breathes, easily, and she was expecting it, but it still stings. Then his hand brushes down her arm until it’s grazing hers, his adam’s apple bobbing up and down visibly. “But I’d like to get there. If you let me.” A careful, playful smile starts to slowly spread across his face, inviting, fingers tangling with hers. “We could start with a date.”

Clarke blinks at him, dumbfounded. “You want to date me?”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, is that such a bold concept?”

“Yes!” She retorts, quick, tugging her hand free so she can use it to push her hair back from her face. “We have nothing in common!”

His grin grows. “Isn’t that the best part of it all?”

“It would never work.” He’s insane.

“Maybe it won’t,” Bellamy relents, and it does occur how stupid this, the two of them in the middle of the quad, yelling at each other. “But you’ll never know for sure if you don’t give it a shot.”

She falters, up until this point actually convinced he was fucking around with her. Some sick joke, or something. Another way to push her around. “You can’t seriously tell me you want this.”

“I do,” he disagrees, genuine as his eyes rake her face. “I like you. Not just your face when you fall apart--” He breaks into a smile, fond, and wolfish, as her skin flushes a pretty pink, “--or when you blush like that, all shy. Not even just because you drive me fucking crazy when you walk around campus in your short little sundresses. I love how smart you are, and how much you care about your friends. You’re even funny, when you’re not trying to be.” He steps closer, gently tugging her arms down from her chest so he can splay his hands across her waist. She doesn’t move away from him, but she doesn’t lean into him either. “I mean, Clarke Blake? That’s Netflix Special material right there.”

Her mouth feels dry, and she’s no longer in the mood to argue. A small spark of hope has started to bloom in her chest, and she squashes it quickly, not willing to watch it prosper. Resigned, and not sure what to believe, she gazes up at him, corners of her mouth turned down sadly, “What is your angle here, Bellamy?” She lifts her shoulders, just barely, trying to find a sign, any sign, in his eyes that he’s just screwing with her. “Is this going to end up like bad early 2000s romcom, is Miller going to accidentally reveal it’s been a bet all along?”

Bellamy sighs deeply, eyes flashing darkly as his jaw clenches briefly. “Are you just going to keep insulting me?”

She deflates, her shoulders relaxing. “I’m sorry, I don’t really know how to do this any other way.”

“This?” He questions, hesitant, as if needing the confirmation.

“Being,” she explains, inwardly cringing, “With someone.”

His hands move further back, locking behind her lower back as her pulls her into him. He’s grinning, and it’s got her heart threatening to beat it’s way out of her ribcage. “That’s okay, we can learn together.”

She allows herself to want this. She’s already too far gone to back out now, so she might as well give it a chance. A tentative smirk plays on her lips, “Will I have the honor of being Bellamy Blake’s first girlfriend?”

“Girlfriend?” His eyebrows jump, teasing tone to his voice, “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, Mrs. Blake. Go on that date first, huh?”

He doesn’t avoid her fist aimed at his bicep in time, but from the look on his face it’s hurt her more than him. So she leans up on her tiptoes, kisses that smug look off his face. It doesn’t work. 

“You know, I might have to reconsider all of this. We’ve barely started and you’ve already made me late for class.”

“I know just how to make it up to you.”

**Author's Note:**

> clarke in this fic: 😳
> 
> im [here](http://www.captaindaddykru.tumblr.com) and also here [here](http://www.twitter.com/captaindaddykru)


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